“You've landed a pretty good life.”
When my friend said those words, I wanted to argue with him.
I'd sent a few close friends a video of my new Airbnb in Mérida. I'd just moved into the place I'd originally booked, after spending my first two weeks back in a different apartment. My friends were enthusiastic about the space, the light, and the things that made it special. But I was focused on what wasn't working.
As I tried to refute my friend's observation, his words landed like a Buddha slap. I could suddenly see how much of my attention had been consumed by what was difficult, what had hurt me, and what wasn't going the way I wanted.
The earthquake in Panama had taken more out of me than I'd realized. Now, in my third week back in Mérida, I was still struggling to settle into myself. I'd slipped into an old pattern of looking for what was wrong, even as I returned to a life filled with experiences and opportunities I'd once hoped for.
I know this pattern well. Growing up, I learned to anticipate the negative. I've spent years working to change that tendency, and I've made progress, but it can still surface when I'm struggling. Recognizing a pattern doesn't always mean I can immediately shift out of it.
On Sunday, I decided to make a conscious effort to be present and notice what was good around me.
A Beautiful Day in Mérida
A cool front had moved through the city, and my new Airbnb felt especially lovely. It's designed to let air flow through the house, with skylights and an indoor terrace that fill the space with light. I could sit and enjoy the breeze without needing air conditioning.
Then loud electrical equipment started up outside.
I laughed at the reminder of how easily the roosters had gotten under my skin in Panama. Instead of staying inside and getting irritated, I decided to go for a walk.
I had an errand at a farmacia, and afterward I wandered toward Plaza Grande. It was Sunday, and the city was alive with people strolling through the plaza. Artisans were building ofrendas for the upcoming Día de Muertos celebrations, bleachers were being set up for performances, and a comedy show was underway.
I wandered among the booths before settling onto a shady park bench to watch the afternoon unfold.
An Unexpected Conversation
An older man approached and asked if he could sit beside me. He wore a visibly old mask and began speaking in Spanish. When he learned I was from Florida, he switched to perfect English.
His name was Alfonso.
He'd grown up in Mérida and moved to the United States when he was sixteen. He'd spent most of his life in Los Angeles, had been married and divorced three times, and had children who still lived in the States.
When he learned I had two grandsons, he smiled. “Oh, you are a young abuela!” He agreed that having children young was the way to go, explaining that he'd preferred to have his children earlier in life so he could enjoy more freedom later.
I laughed and called him mariposa, Spanish for butterfly. He burst into laughter and kept going until he finally corrected me with a grin: “Mariposo.” It was a silly exchange, but it made me smile. Here was a man in his seventies who had lived a full life and was still looking for a girlfriend.
Alfonso had returned to Mérida eight years earlier. He told me that the COVID pandemic had taken all his siblings, leaving him the only one left. He was living in his sister's house and trying to reconnect with the land where he'd grown up.
He admitted that he felt embarrassed not to know more about his own city. When he was young, he hadn't appreciated Mérida as he did now. But he was grateful to have another chance to be there, especially at this stage of his life.
Our conversation turned to my paintings. I showed him the work I'd been creating, including one inspired by Hacienda Mucuyche. He told me he'd recently visited Hacienda Yaxcopoil and thought it was beautiful. He encouraged me to go. I liked that he was still exploring his city, discovering places, and sharing what excited him with someone he'd only just met.
Alfonso seemed at peace with the life he'd lived, without having lost his interest in what might come next. Despite the losses he'd experienced, he was still open to new conversations, new places, and the possibility of love.
When we parted, we shook hands, and I thanked him for sharing his story with me.
The Practice of Seeing What Is Good
I had gone for a walk because I was irritated by the noise outside. Instead, I found myself sitting beside a stranger whose story stayed with me.
Alfonso had lost so much, yet he spoke about returning to Mérida with gratitude. He hadn't come back because life had gone according to plan. He'd come back because, after everything he'd experienced, there was still something here worth rediscovering.
I thought about my friend's words and the life I'd been so quick to criticize. The earthquake had shaken me, and I was still finding my footing. But somewhere along the way, I'd allowed what was difficult to become the only thing I could see.
That afternoon didn't make my problems disappear. It reminded me that they weren't the whole picture.
The breeze moving through my Airbnb, the energy of the plaza, a stranger's laughter, a conversation about art, and the possibility of beginning again in a place I love. None of these things required my life to be perfect. They were already there, waiting for me to notice.
Maybe that's the practice: not forcing myself to be grateful or pretending the hard parts don't hurt, but remembering to look up long enough to see what else is here.
Continue exploring
If this reflection resonated with you, you might also appreciate The Hustle Is Ancestral, a journal about the resilience, resourcefulness, and deep-rooted work ethic I see in everyday life in Mexico, and how it connects to my own journey of building a life through determination and self-reliance.
[Read: The Hustle Is Ancestral →]
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